Write something exciting but about nothing, that doesn’t make sense but makes enough sense that the reader might understand part of you—or the narrator because one should never assume that the author and the narrator are one in the same.
But I think that’s an easy way out. So someone can stomach looking at
the author after she recounts her bloody tale of attempted suicide and
her abusive household even when her scarred wrists and bruised face tell
you she’s anything but innocent when it comes to brushes with torture
and self-pity. But you just sit there and snap your fingers because
she’s nothing like you—though you want her to be. You picture her in a
happy home with a good life because, obviously, she just imagines a
world where someone suffers because life is too boring without pain and
angst and crime and war.
Love isn’t spicy enough without a little torment and soiled sheets.
No one but children read stories for their happy endings because love
and sharing and friendship and sex aren’t anywhere close to human
without a hint of despair. That’s the problem, isn’t it? We’re only
human. We are a violent species whom looks the other way when we commit a
foul. And none of us can say we’re clean after the age of 13 because
we’ve all had that moment when we’ve gotten so angry that we’ve ha to
say, “What the FUCK, brain?” when we think of pushing someone into a
wood chipper of suffocating them with a pillow. We resist the urge to
kill not because it is immoral or wrong or even just messy only because
we know if we actually committed the crime we’d get caught.
But continue writing your poem about nothing and everything and just try not to piss people off.